


The Secret of Life

by MarrCartney



Series: The House with the Rose in the Window [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: 2000s, Big Time Shifts, England (Country), Inspired by Music, Kind of graphic description of injury, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarrCartney/pseuds/MarrCartney
Summary: When you're bound to the house and feeling like the world is ending, all you might need is someone else.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: The House with the Rose in the Window [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187081
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Secret of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the two prequels I've been working on to _Don't Go Away_ / _The House With the Rose in the Window_. This one is set between 2002-2010, and tells the story of Dusty and Caspar growing up. The other prequel will take me a lot longer to write as it is... well, a lot longer, so I'm just satisfying myself with this now. 
> 
> Enjoy! I wrote this all, and it's just one chapter of it, but I'm still not massively happy with it. Who knows. I'll come back and edit it later, especially if there are typos. If I _really_ dislike it I'll take it down later.
> 
> I've been listening to a lot of Joy Division, too, hence why they get a little mention in here. I might bring them in more in the next chapter. Ian Curtis's story always makes me so sad. 
> 
> **Soundtrack:**  
>  \- _Getting Away With It_ by Electronic (Good GOD I love Johnny Marr and Bernard Sumner)  
> \- _Stop Crying Your Heart Out_ by Oasis

**2002**

Sometimes, when Caspar feels like it’s all too much and the world is ending, he sings to himself.

Lying on his back on his bed, he stares at the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars that are still stuck to his ceiling and he sings to himself, like this:

_I’ve been walking in the rain just to get wet on purpose._

_I’ve been forcing myself not to forget just to feel worse._

_I’ve been getting away with it all my life._

_However I look it’s clear to see,_

_I love you more than you love me_.

This is an old song – well, not really. In fact, it’s a few months younger than Caspar himself. By today’s standards, though, it’s ancient. Dad has it on a little cassette, one of those things that you put in the machine and you have to be really careful not to get the tape all unwound because then that was the end of it.

He tries another song.

_’Cause all of the stars are fading away,_

_Just try not to worry, you’ll see them someday._

_Just take what you need, and be on your way,_

_And stop crying your heart out._

This is a newer song. It might have been at the top of the charts a couple of months ago, or near there, Caspar can’t remember. These two songs are part of a very small collection that he knows – music isn’t one of his priorities. It’s only in these moments, where everything seems doomed, that it becomes so.

For Caspar, everything seems currently doomed because he has broken his arm. It had happened last week. He’d been cycling home after a ride out to the next town along. It was whilst on a cold and lonely road that a pheasant had suddenly ran out before him, causing him to slam the brakes on. Too hard, it had seemed – he went head-first over the handlebars. He’d gotten back up, bumped and scraped but under the illusion that nothing was wrong, until he’d realised his wrist was hanging off at an angle it shouldn’t have been.

And so he lies on his bed, home alone with his arm bundled in a red cast. It had been his right arm, too – of course. He can’t write, or draw, or play football, anything that distracts him from such feelings of misery. His dinner is in the fridge, already prepared with some cling film taped over the top, as if Caspar is some needy kid at the age of thirteen – which doesn’t actually feel too far from the truth. Both parents had considered taking time off work, but Caspar had encouraged them to go back, determined to wallow in some self-pity.

What should he do? Go downstairs and watch some television? No. It’s never anything interesting – just reruns of _Gardeners’ World_ or last night’s _EastEnders_. Neither daffodils nor the exploits of the Mitchell family are enough to pique Caspar’s interest. There are a couple of VHS tapes of _Jonathan Creek_ sitting on the cupboard. Caspar considers watching them, guessing wrongly who the criminal is for a while, but figures trying to start the tapes up might be too much on his arm. Maybe not.

He rises, trying not to put too much weight on his bad arm. The bed creaks as he stands, and moves around the room. Dad would say that it looks like a bombsite in here, and he’s not wrong. There’s stuff strewn everywhere - rubbish, puzzle pieces, even some small spiky thing that was meant to be a stress toy. His desk is no better. Stationary, books, and a cluster of drawings that he isn’t quite satisfied with. The mess makes the room seem smaller, but it doesn’t ease the quietness, the solitude.

Ignoring these thoughts, Caspar crosses to the window. The window is his favourite thing about the room – it’s a perfect circle, like an eye in the wall. There’s an image painted on to it, too. A scarlet rose in the centre, blossoming from the green stem. Caspar feels a strange sort of pride in this. None of the other houses on the street have painted round windows, only wall plastered over it. It’s like this house wears a medal.

Holding onto the windowsill with his good arm, he peers out. He can still see the neat zig-zag of the rooves, the green tops of trees and the glistening strip that is the sea. Nothing is changed – that’s something. At least, not until he hears the sound of footsteps on the pavement. He cranks the window open a little further to get a better look. A bike has been leaned against one of the trees in front of the house. It’s a nice one – an Apollo, and jealousy shoots straight through Caspar’s sore arm.

The bike’s owner is pacing the pavement before Caspar’s house. It’s another boy, in fact, he could be the same age as Caspar. He’s got a round face, a little chubby, and almond-shaped green eyes. His hair is strawberry blonde and untamed, sticking out at every angle like it’s never seen a brush before. He has a worried expression on his face, rubbing his hand across his forehead every now and then, walking back and forth.

Caspar swallows. He’s never seen this boy before. What’s he doing? Walking to and fro across his house’s threshold like… he’s on patrol, or something. Yet he looks so lonely. He opens the window more, leans out, and says, ‘Hello.’

At first, he’s surprised at how loud his voice comes out in the street’s silence. The other boy is taken aback, to, jumping and looking up until their eyes meet. ‘Hello.’

‘What are you doing?’ Caspar asks, tilting his head. The boy scowls.

‘What’s it to you?’ He scowls, kicking the pavement with the scuffed tip of his shoe.

‘I’m just asking. You’re in front of my house, after all.’

‘I’m just… resting.’ The boy says. His accent is centred in the West Country, covered in rounded vowels instead of being all over the place like Caspar’s.

Caspar purses his lips, observing the boy’s unhappiness. ‘What’s your name?’

He blinks. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. Who else could I be talking to?’

‘Well…’ The boy tugs at his lower lip, before saying, ‘Dustin Perry.’

‘ _Dustin_?’ Caspar has to stifle a laugh.

‘Yeah. I know. Everybody calls me Dusty, though. Either way, it’s stupid.’

‘No, no. It’s not…’ Caspar pauses. ‘I’m-’

‘Caspar Anthonsson.’ Dusty says, his eyes narrowing. ‘I know you.’

He stares at him. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I go to St. Agatha’s, as well. I’m in Year Nine, like you.’

‘I can’t say I’ve seen you.’

‘Because you’re on the football team. You’re only interested in about ten other boys, plus a few girls.’

Caspar swallows, picking at some paint on the windowsill. This conversation is going well. ‘I’m sorry about that, Dusty. You’re in Year Nine, say? When’s your birthday?’

‘June.’

Caspar looks up. ‘June? What day?’

‘The fourteenth.’ This time, Caspar can’t hide it. He begins laughing; far too hard. It only pushes the other boy further. ‘What’s so funny about that?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Caspar says, coming down with a sigh. ‘It’s just… that’s my birthday, too. We were born on the same day.’

That comment changes anything. Dusty’s face goes from closed off to lit up in an instant. Now, in this moment, he’s ready to hear anything that Caspar has to say. ‘Really? June fourteenth, nineteen-eighty-nine?’

‘Really.’ He notices a cluster of newspapers stacked under Dusty’s arm. ‘You’re a paper boy, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods, looking at the papers with disdain. ‘I hate it.’

‘Then quit.’

‘It’s not that simple. That means I have to write a notice and _hand it in_. Can you _imagine_ how awkward it would be? Besides, I’m saving up for something.’

‘For what?’

He looks down again. ‘You’ll laugh.’

‘I won’t. Promise.’ Dusty doesn’t speak for a moment, before murmuring something Caspar can’t hear. ‘What did you say?’

‘I…’ Dusty says, louder this time. ‘I want to get tickets for _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.’

Caspar scoffs. ‘Why would I laugh at that?’

Dusty scratches his chin. ‘Everybody calls me a nerd for it.’

‘Everybody is stupid. Frankly, I love _Harry Potter_. The books are brilliant; _The Philosopher’s Stone_ movie was brilliant. Go and see it if that’s what you want to do.’ Caspar sees Dusty’s eyes light up again, before dimming.

‘But… I don’t have anyone else to go with.’

‘Well,’ Caspar says, ‘Take me. Not like I’ve much else to do.’ He holds up his arm just enough for Dusty to see the cast. His eyes widen.

‘What did you do?’

‘Broke it in a bike accident.’

‘Ah…’ Dusty says. He looks back towards his bike. ‘Well, I have to go. These papers aren’t going to deliver themselves. You have no idea how many people read _The Sun_.’

‘ _The Sun_? I thought toilet paper had a better reputation than that rag.’

Dusty laughs. Soon enough, Caspar finds himself doing the same. Something loosens within his chest – a pleasurable feeling, some sort of understanding. Caspar nods. ‘I’ll see you around, yeah? Make sure you get yourself that _Harry Potter_ ticket.’

‘Oh, I will.’ Dusty smirks. ‘See you soon, Caspar.’

///

‘Why did you come by?’

‘Because I’ve finished my paper round and would like some company.’

‘Don't you have anyone else to talk to? You're _always_ here.’

He dodges this question. ‘You’ve broke your arm. I just wanted to check on you.’ Dusty leans against the windowsill. It’s an unusually sunny day for late October – around nineteen degrees, the radio said – and they're inside. The light shines through the stained glass of the window, illuminating and darkening Dusty’s features at the same time, giving him a sort of dusky halo of some sort. He turns and begins focusing his attention on Caspar’s desk, leafing through the mountains of drawings.

‘Why all the bicycles?’ He asks, holding up a sheet. On it is an image that Caspar has drawn many times: an old-fashioned bike, black and white.

‘They’re meant to be hard to draw.’

‘Yet you have loads of really decent drawings of them… and horses. Horses, too.’

‘Also meant to be hard to draw. You know Sendak?’

‘ _Where the Wild Things Are_?’

‘That’s the one. That book was meant to be about horses, but he gave up because they were too hard to draw.’

‘Oh, wow.’ Dusty continues to look through Caspar’s desk. One thing about Dusty: he’s stubborn. A week after his initial meeting with Caspar on the pavement outside, he’d showed up again, knocking on the door until he got an answer. He’d babbled non-stop about how he’d nearly saved up enough money to buy not one, but _two_ tickets to see the new _Harry Potter_ movie. Caspar had smiled all the way through this, not quite having the heart to tell Dusty his comments hadn’t been serious.

Second thing about Dusty: he has very little concept of privacy. He’d marched his way into Caspar’s house, giving the other boy a bolt of panic. He isn’t sure how he’ll tell his parents that a random boy they’ve never met is now coming into their house almost daily, but Dusty seems to care very little about this. He’s wandered around Caspar’s house already, searching through the rooms like an animal sniffing out his territory.

‘Have you read this?’ Dusty asks. He’s now lying on his back on the littered floor, flicking through a copy of _A Brief History of Time_.

‘Yes.’

Dusty looks at him with confusion. ‘What? Why?’

‘Because it’s interesting.’

‘It’s all Greek to me.’ He wrinkles his nose and pushes the book away. ‘Physics. Ugh.’

‘Don’t say that. I love physics.’

‘It’s so _dry_.’

‘No, it’s not! In fact,’ He leaves a proud pause, ‘I’m going to study it at university.’

Dusty blinks and sits up. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ He closes his eyes, imagining himself walking towards a diploma in a cap and gown. ‘I think I’d like to make some sort of ground-breaking discovery. The next… Stephen Hawking, I think.’

‘What would you discover?’

‘Maybe… the secrets of life.’ Caspar affirms, watching the stars on his ceiling. ‘Something like that. I could find out the meaning of our universe.’

‘I think I already know that.’ Dusty sing-songs.

‘Do you, now?’ Caspar cocks an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’

Dusty pauses, a coy smile on his face, before giggling, ‘Forty-two.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Caspar grabs a pillow with his good arm and throws it over at the other boy. ‘I thought you were actually going to give me a serious answer.’

‘ _Forty-two_ is a serious answer.’

‘No, it’s a joke out of a Douglas Adams book.’

‘And you’re saying Douglas Adams isn’t a genius?’ Caspar shuts up. He has no answer for that. ‘Exactly.’ Dusty huffs indignantly and picks up another book that he’s pulled out from somewhere – _Good Omens_. ‘It’s so _quiet_ in here.’ Caspar shrugs nonchalantly, but wonders if Dusty could be right. Mostly, the scratch of a pencil or the feathery turning of pages is enough to satisfy him, but the silence as he stares at the ceiling can sometimes feel deathly. ‘You should put some music on, Caspar. That’d liven it up a bit.’

Caspar frowns. ‘I don’t really like music.’

There’s a crash, and Caspar sits bolt upright. Dusty is standing, staring with a horrified expression on his face. The copy of _Good Omens_ has slipped right out of his hands, landing on the floor so all of the pages are bent in the wrong way.

‘What?’ He asks.

‘You don’t like music?’ Dusty says it in a whisper, like some strange taboo. He's looking at Caspar as if he's sprouted another head. 

‘No. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well…’ Dusty laughs and looks around. ‘Hearing without music is just like… I guess… seeing without colour! Come on.’ He flops down onto the bed. ‘There must be _some_ music.’

‘Nope. Trust me, people have tried to encourage me. My dad is a session musician.’

‘You must like one band. Nirvana?’

‘No.’

‘Green Day.’

‘Nope.’

‘Joy Division.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘What! They’re my favourite. Fine. How about Oasis? Everybody likes Oasis.’

‘I don’t like Oasis.’ Caspar says, dialling it down when he realises just how pompous he sounds. ‘Not one bit. The Gallagher brothers are hedonists.’

‘They’re what?’

‘Hedonists.’ Caspar says. ‘They only care about indulgence.’ In his tirade, he omits mentioning that he’d actually been singing an Oasis song the day he met Dusty. Thankfully, Dusty doesn’t notice anything is wrong.

‘Heh-duh-nist.’ Dusty sounds it out with great exaggeration, as if the word is a physical object in his mouth. ‘That shouldn’t be your reason for disliking Oasis. I think everybody’s one of those, really.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we all do stuff to indulge ourselves, don’t we? I like to listen to music. You like to… play football, or do physics equations.’

‘Hang on.’ Caspar laughs. ‘I’m not that boring.’

‘Still.’ Dusty holds his hands up. ‘Life would be boring without indulgence, wouldn’t it? We all seek pleasure. We all want something to take our mind off the negative emotions. If we find something, and it makes us feel good, we keep up at it, don’t we? We don’t stop.’

Caspar smiles, but stops laughing when he sees the vehement expression on Dusty’s face. ‘You have a very philosophical perspective for a thirteen-year-old, you know that?’

Dusty returns this with a look, a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘And I’d say you have a very mature perspective for a thirteen-year-old, Caspar Anthonsson. He lies back, lacing his fingers together and placing his hands behind his head. ‘Maybe that’s your secret to life. Hedonism.’

‘Mm. I don’t think it’s enough to get me a PhD, though. There’s got to be more to life than that.’

Dusty hums, his eyes closed and blissful. ‘Not much more, though.’


End file.
